


The Icebreaker

by HenryMercury



Series: Wish Fulfilment [2]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Clowns, F/F, Humor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Strap-Ons, kinkshaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24956965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: Even Eve has her limits.Serial killers? Sure. But clowns? That’s a bridge too far.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: Wish Fulfilment [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806286
Comments: 8
Kudos: 168





	The Icebreaker

**Author's Note:**

> To all of you who asked for a strap-on sequel to Eau Chaude: be careful what you wish for.

_“Why?”_

This is all Eve can say when Villanelle emerges from the bathroom.

Eve is in bed, reading the news on her laptop. T-shirt, no shorts. It’s an unusually warm evening.

“What do you mean ‘why’? Don’t you think I’m sexy?” Villanelle clutches her heart in a dramatic display of woundedness. “I dressed up just for you. Your special first time.”

The toy is rainbow. It juts out from a purpose-built gap in the front of Villanelle’s black boyleg underwear. There’s a splotch of red makeup on the end of her nose, yellow goddamn smiley-face pasties over her nipples, and a wig of bright red synthetic coils covering her hair. Her feet, at least, are bare.

“My first time… having sex with a clown?” Eve grimaces.

Villanelle shakes her head. “I wouldn’t want to assume,” she says seriously. “But I _do_ know that it will be the first time I fuck you with a strap-on.”

Gesturing crudely between her legs, Villanelle pokes the blunt head of the sizeable silicone dildo downwards with her forefinger. It springs back up, waving around. Eve’s surprised no _doioioing_ sound effect has accompanied the display.

“I’m not having sex with you like this,” Eve informs her, pointedly turning back to her reading. It’s extremely hard to ignore Villanelle, but the payoff is always worth the effort.

“But it will be good, I promise,” she scowls, marching up to Eve and waving a hand in front of the laptop screen.

“Not as good as _not fucking a clown_ will be, though.”

“Are you kinkshaming me?”

Eve cocks a brow. “I don’t know; is this actually your kink?”

Villanelle gleefully _doioioings_ her stupid clown dick again. “If I said it was…?”

“Then yes, I would be kinkshaming you.”

“Not very open-minded of you.”

“Even I have my limits.” _Serial killers? Sure. Clowns? A bridge too far._

Villanelle harrumphs, grumpily removing the wig. She might actually be the funniest clown Eve’s ever seen.

“What about now?” She tries.

“That’s certainly better, but it’s still not happening.”

The nipple pasties stare at Eve with their black, unblinking eyes.

Villanelle deflates a little bit. Genuinely, Eve thinks, and something twists inside her gut. The socialised, polite part of her that she’s increasingly neglected wants to apologise; to make things comfortable, if not right. Eve ignores it.

“I was just trying to make it fun,” Villanelle sulkily picks the obnoxious smileys off her breasts. She smacks one into the wall. It falls off almost immediately.

“Hey,” Eve says, flipping her laptop closed and setting it on the bedside table. “Come here.”

Villanelle lets a long moment pass before she acquiesces, coming onto the bed and crawling into Eve’s lap.

Eve reaches out, cupping her cheek with one hand and using the thumb of the other to wipe at the red spot. Some colour comes away on Eve’s skin, but mainly the clown nose remains, resolute.

“It’s liquid lipstick,” mumbles Villanelle. “You will have to use makeup remover.”

Eve can’t help but chuckle. “You don’t do things halfway.”

“Why would I? I am extremely competent.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Are you going to make me take the rest of it off first, or can I kiss you?” Villanelle asks, her air of plaintiveness transforming rapidly into a purr. Full-on temptation mode.

And god, it’s not as if Eve was built to resist.

Villanelle presses lushly into to Eve’s mouth, encouraging her with soft nips and sighs—until she bites. Canine into the side of Eve’s lower lip. Not vicious enough to draw blood, but enough that the spot will soon be swollen and red. Eve growls at that, moving one of the hands at Villanelle’s waist up to her neck. She presses her thumb against the pale column of Villanelle’s throat. Compressing the windpipe a little. Urging her on much more.

The other hand pulls Villanelle closer. Eve wants to feel those breasts pressing against her own. She wants the greedy wriggle Villanelle does when she’s riding Eve’s upper thigh—

The dildo pokes her stomach at an unfortunate angle and startles her. How quickly she’s adapted to sex without a penis.

“You should turn over and hold onto the bedhead,” Villanelle tells her. “I do it well this way.”

Eve believes that.

She’s been half expecting the missionary position all over again, she realises. Why she ever thought Villanelle would wield a cock anything like Niko did is a total mystery now that the moment is here.

Villanelle climbs off her, moving to the bedside table. Using the uncapped bottle of lube that sits next to the pile of takeaway menus (because they’ve turned the room into exactly that kind of iniquitous den) she smooths slick moisture over the silicone shaft.

Partly because she’s too busy watching the show to shed them, and partly because she’ll be contrary when she feels like it, Eve gets on her hands and knees with her top and underwear still on.

Villanelle regards her. “Are you ready?” she asks. “You will need to be ready.”

Eve smirks at her. “Do your worst,” she says.

“Hold the bars, not the pillow.” Villanelle’s voice is abruptly cold. Demanding. Just this side of threatening. A shiver of heat runs through Eve.

She leans forward obediently enough, propping herself up by wrapping her fingers around two of the bedhead’s thin vertical poles. Her arms shake slightly under the pressure.

The bed dips behind her as Villanelle knees her way back on and positions herself behind Eve.

“You did not take your clothes off,” she observes, conveying neither pleasure nor displeasure at the fact. Eve will just have to wait, anticipating whatever reaction she metes out.

With light fingers, Eve’s underwear are pulled to the side. The slightest brush of a fingertip over her wet hole has her tightening her grip on the bedframe. It’s not enough—so little that it’s too much.

For an unbearable moment, nothing happens.

The wide head of the strap-on pries her apart swiftly and without mercy, filling her further, further—until finally her body will take no more, aching and fluttering around the length, girth and surprising coolness of the intrusion.

She is not given time to catch her breath before the wide, deep pressure withdraws, coming all the way out, the head dragging as it slips back through her opening.

“ _Fuck_ ,” says Eve desperately. “Fucking _fuck_.”

The thrusts which follow are faster and just as deep. Villanelle knocks her forward with every one of them, only the bed and the iron grip of hands at Eve’s hips keeping her in place.

“Is this what you wanted, Eve?” Villanelle says—infuriatingly coherent when Eve will be sobbing if the pummelling continues another ten seconds.

She doesn’t ask it like a question, although the certainty that she’d stop if Eve said _no_ is there, pushed aside against the wall of Eve’s skull. Instead, Eve leans in to the fantasy that nothing could stop Villanelle now. She’s caught Eve, just as much as Eve has caught her, and there’s no guessing the limits of what she could do to her. Eve can only soak up the power of it—the remorseless violence and shameless pleasure Villanelle has lived by.

The only answer she can give is a low moan. Villanelle’s hips stutter at the sound.

“You sound so good, Eve. So good,” she says, pumping into Eve more slowly now, pressing down on the small of her back until her knees collapse from beneath her. “I want you to tell me that you’re mine.”

“Yours,” Eve pants—and it’s been true all along, really. Villanelle may not own her, but Eve will always belong to her in a way she can’t bury.

“Mine.”

Villanelle fucks her deeper, deeper until the hollowing pressure lands on the doorstep of pain. She’ll be making a mess of the bedclothes again, she’s so filthy-wet with lube and arousal. Villanelle’s right hand moves over her arse, pulling the cheeks apart and hooking around the bunched fabric of her underwear. She pulls, and the material rubs back and forth over Eve’s clit and arsehole.

Eve is vaguely aware of her own voice, yelling into the pillow as she comes, muscles flexing around the rigid toy buried inside her.

There’s a baby Rorschach soaked into the pillowcase when she raises her head. Tears, spit. A complete mess in a matter of minutes. Eve hasn’t been fucked like that in years, if ever.

“Good?”

“Fuck you,” she groans exhaustedly.

Villanelle shifts. She slides the strap-on out of Eve’s body with a tenderness that might belie the savage fucking of moments ago were she anyone else. Anyone less.

“Good?” Villanelle asks again, and it occurs to Eve that she wants a real answer.

“So good,” she replies, making to roll over and nearly hitting Villanelle with her shoulder. Villanelle, who has leant down to kiss along her spine. Villanelle, whose nose is still painted red.

Eve laughs.

“For real, though: _are_ you into clowns?”

Villanelle shrugs, smiles. “I like costumes,” she replies. “Roleplay, power play. The clown was just an icebreaker.”

“Right, I can work with that. Any roles in particular? Because for the record, I already think the international assassin thing is about as sexy as it gets.”

“Thank you, Eve,” Villanelle looks pepped by the compliment, as if she didn’t already know just how much her entire existence turns Eve on. She takes a moment to think, answering at last: “I like teachers.”

Eve puts her face in her hands and laughs until she cries.


End file.
